Secrets
by fmapreshwab
Summary: The three times Matt almost told Foggy, and the one time Foggy almost told Matt. Matt/Foggy
1. Pulse

A/N: This takes place during Matt and Foggy's college days. I'm breaking out of some writer's block.

* * *

Walking home with Foggy at the end of the night was always an adventure. The bar they frequented wasn't far from campus, but trouble always seemed to find them. The things they'd seen (or not, in Matt's case, but rather sensed) always made for reminiscing the next day. On spring days, especially, like this one, there was nothing the two liked better than to go out, get drunk, and stumble home.

Tonight, they were headed back to their dorm after a few hours of hard drinking, and Foggy was as much leaning against Matt as guiding him. These were the nights Matt liked best. Foggy was a solid weight against him, and as Matt's hand brushed his, he could feel Foggy's pulse race. Matt could feel the warmth of Foggy's cheeks as he blushed.

On most nights, Matt had to stop himself from walking too quickly, from giving himself away. But on these nights, Foggy wasn't paying any attention to Matt's feet. He could feel Foggy's gaze, as thick and heavy as the phenomenon after which he'd named himself.

Matt sensed an alley on his right, and started letting Foggy push him closer and closer, until Foggy noticed it. "Hey, hey, there's a right, up here, just a little, yeah," Foggy slurred, halfheartedly guiding Matt into the alleyway.

Matt had often thought that if he didn't have his senses, the gifts he'd been given by the accident, if he were well and truly blind, Foggy would probably make things worse. He felt the soft scratch of brick against his coat as Foggy began to push him against a wall.

"Let's...let's just rest here a sec," Foggy muttered, more dizzy than winded. He guided Matt's hand to the wall before releasing him to fall unceremoniously to the ground. Matt slid down the brick wall to join Foggy in the cool grass. "How'd you know I fell?" Foggy asked, his speech still leaving something to be desired.

Matt grinned. "I heard you."

"Sometimes," Foggy stuttered, looking up into the night, "I forget you're blind. I was about to talk to you about the stars."

Matt felt the bottom of his stomach drop. He'd been living in a world of flames for most of his life. He hadn't seen starts since he was a kid, and he'd never taken the time to look at them. He had no real frame of reference for what Foggy was trying to share with him, and for the first time in months, he felt handicapped.

"I guess that's a move you can't use," Foggy continued, oblivious to Matt's pain.

"What?" Matt asked, stirring from self-pity.

Foggy smiled. "You know, oh, aren't the stars so beautiful tonight, and when she goes to look up, you surprise her with a kiss."

"Hey, Foggy-" Matt started, but Foggy interrupted, perhaps recognizing his mistake.

He was laughing as he spoke. "I'm smiling. I always forget to tell you stuff like that."

"Foggy, why were you-" But Foggy interrupted again.

"I guess you don't really miss it, though. The move, not the stars." Foggy wasn't looking up anymore.

"What do you mean?" Matt asked.

There was a sad edge to Foggy's voice when he spoke again that pierced Matt's heart. "I mean I bet you miss the stars all the time. I know I would."

Matt shook his head, taking Foggy's arm again as they sat there, leaning against the wall. "No, the other part. About not missing the move."

"Well, you're somehow always surrounded by hot chicks, so you've gotta be doing something right." Foggy shifted, and Matt's fingers brushed against his hand once more. Foggy's heart pounded in Matt's ears.

Matt gave a small grin. "And it never seems to last, so I've gotta be doing something wrong." As he spoke, he shifted closer to Foggy.

Foggy grinned, his cheeks a burning pink. "What are you doing?"

"Your pulse is racing," Matt whispered.

"How can you tell?" Foggy asked, confused.

Matt thought for a long moment before answering. "Mine is too." Leaning in, he took Foggy's lips with his own, claiming him harshly.

The kiss gave heat to the world of fire in which Matt lived. His senses exploded with Foggy. He tasted like the crappy beer he'd been swilling all night, and beneath that, like the pizza they'd shared earlier in the night. He reeked of the awful cologne the girl from Punjabi had liked. He must've wanted to be rid of it. Foggy's skin was warm and wonderful, but the feeling was all overpowered by the hammering of hearts in Matt's ears.

Matt could feel the devil rising inside him, and before he knew what was happening, he was on top of Foggy, taking what he wanted. Foggy was all too happy to be along for the ride.

* * *

Matt and Foggy awoke the next morning in their respective beds. Foggy held his head between his hands, covering his ears. "What the hell happened to us last night?" he asked, his eyes clouded over and his voice a husky whisper.

Matt grinned. He had known this was a possibility, and he had actually hoped for it. "We both got a little too drunk last night. But it seems like we both made it home okay." Matt paused for a moment, looking for a way to sell his story. "Did anyone write on my face?" he asked, grabbing at his scrub-covered face, only to hear Foggy laughing heartily.

"You're okay, Murdock."

* * *

It's been a while, but I'm trying to get back into it. Reviews are appreciated, positive or negative. That's how I get better, people.


	2. Partners?

Thanks for the feedback that's come in so far. I appreciate the time.

Daredevil belongs to Marvel. Don't sue me.

* * *

The word was frightening to Matt, mostly because it wasn't accurate. Partners were people who shared common goals, common knowledge, common trust and respect. Matt knew that a partner would have talked to Foggy by now about plans like the ones Matt had for Hell's Kitchen. He also knew that if he tried to explain things to Foggy, he was likely to lose him. Lately, Matt had felt worse and worse about the secret he kept from Foggy, and this idea that they should open a firm together, while better than working at one of the soulless larger companies, left Matt more vulnerable than ever to that guilt.

When they'd met, when they'd been younger, it had been easy to keep his secret from Foggy. Matt was focusing on his law degree, and Foggy was only his roommate. Matt hadn't yet started the cleaning of his precious Hell's Kitchen, and he and Foggy were only bound by a purpose that would end at graduation.

They'd talked, jokingly and not so jokingly, about going into business together someday. There had been the drunken proposals of whose name should go first on the sign, and the more sober coversations during their internship. But that had always been a far-away and ethereal dream, something to talk about at night like little boys at a sleep-over, that Matt had always known would disappear as soon as those big, soul-sucking corporate machines got their hands on Foggy.

But then something unexpected had happened. Matt came to like, even to trust, Foggy. It had always been difficult for Matt to make friends, even when his dad had been alive. Foggy was the first real friend he'd had in years, the first person who wasn't looking after him because they'd been paid to, or because they felt pity for the poor blind kid. None of that had ever even been a factor with Foggy, and Matt had never found the way to properly thank him.

This could be that thanks, that show of friendship that communicated to Foggy how important he had become to Matt's life. Or it could end their relationship. Matt had plans for the city, plans that didn't include a wet nurse to follow him around, doting and fretting. He couldn't afford the kind of oversight that having a partner welcomed. But then, Foggy had never been the doting type.

No, Foggy was more the type to get black-out drunk and miss what was right in front of him. Matt may have lost his sight as a child, but Foggy was truly and utterly blind sometimes. But it wasn't all Foggy's fault.

As his friend's fingertips lingered on the inside of his wrist, waiting for a reaction, Matt reminisced. He thought about the last time he'd slipped up in front of Foggy, and how easy it had been to cover it with a lie. Matt hated how easy it had become to lie to his friend.

Matt and Foggy had been walking home from one of their bar nights, Foggy leaning heavily against Matt in what had become a routine formation. Matt, by far the more sober somehow, would walk Foggy home more than the opposite, letting the far drunker law student steady himself by using the blind man's gait as a guide.

The man had come up slowly from behind. Matt had heard his approach, but thought nothing of it. They weren't the only students out this late, and they all had to get back to the dorms somehow. Matt wasn't one to rush to judgement. Until the man stepped closer. Even through his beer-dulled senses, he could hear the cocking of the gun.

"Hey," came the call from behind.

Foggy, drunk and friendly, had begun to slow. "Hey, friend, what can we help you with?"

Foggy had stopped completely at this point, despite Matt's prodding. "Just need to know the time," the man said, drawing closer.

Foggy had released Matt's arm to check the time just as the man drew his gun. Matt spun, took the gun fom the man's hand, and hit him three times in the right eye, knocking him both unconscious and into a row of nearby hedges. By the time Foggy had looked up, they were standing alone beneath a street light.

"Wasn't there a guy?" Foggy had slurred drunkenly.

"What guy?" Matt had asked, swinging his cane around and doing his best to sound earnest.

"Why did I let go of you?" Foggy had asked next, gesturing wildly for Matt to rejoin him. He'd had at least the good grace to blush as Matt's fingers had found his, then traveled up his arm for "support". Utterly blind, Matt thought, staring at the space where he knew Foggy stood, waiting still for his reaction. Matt smiled at the memory, smiled at the man standing across from him.

It was going to be hell lying to Foggy, but Matt knew his mind was made up. He had no other real options. It was either this, or lose the best friend he'd ever had.

All these thoughts flashed through Matt's mind in the time it took for Foggy to let Matt know that he wanted to shake hands. They had been whirling around in his mind like a tornado for days since he'd asked Foggy, seriously this time, to join him in opening their own firm. This moment was pivotal, possibly defining, for the way he planned to save the city. He'd have to do it right under Foggy's nose, and he had to be okay with that. He could never slip, never second guess, never flinch. He would have to lie every day. And he was ready for that. He had to be. "Partners," he finally confirmed, shaking Foggy's hand firmly.

* * *

Reviews are appreciated! I'm coming off a long writing drought, and I need to know what works.


	3. Patronizing

Thanks for the feedback so far. Like I said, I'm still working on getting back in the swing, and I appreciate any reviews.

Daredevil is a trademark of Marvel, and therefore Disney. Don't sue me.

* * *

"Foggy," the mechanical voice at my bedside chirps, "Foggy, Foggy." These days I could count on one hand the mornings my partner actually let me wake up to my programmed alarm. No, it was the voice each morning, the empty voice of my "handicapable" cellphone chirping away. On the mornings I chanced to have company, fewer and further between lately, they would often wonder why my morning alarm was a weather alert. It rarely fails to bring a smile to my face, much like the attorney in question.

I usually try not to let it get past the third or fourth ring, but last night was a long one, and my muscles are stiff, and the call rolls over to voicemail before I can reach the phone. Foggy hates leaving voicemail. Sure enough, a few seconds later the phone is buzzing in my hand. "Foggy," the voice repeats, no more or less urgent than before, "Foggy."

"Foggy," I repeat after the machine as I answer the call.

There is an edge to Foggy's voice when he speaks, the same edge it always carries when he has to call me a second time. "Matt, you okay?" What he really means is 'Matt, did you fall down the stairs? Did you cut your throat shaving? Did some awful blind-person thing happen to you?'

Foggy was well-intentioned and, overall, usually pretty moderate in his concerns, but they chafed all the same. His anxiety weighed like an anchor around my neck, with only two ways to cut the cord, neither terribly appealing. I could either walk away from Foggy, like Stick always told me, or I could tell him the truth.

I'd had my opportunities throughout the years. When we were young, still in college, I almost told him about my plans, my abilities, a dozen times. When we started working together as interns, started talking about starting a firm together, I should have said something. I could've told him at any time, but everytime I got close, something held me back.

Anyway, at the moment, I preferred the anchor. "Yeah, don't worry about it. Phone must've gotten knocked under the table last night. I just had a little trouble finding it." My lies always sound so lame to my ears, even after hearty approval from my brain.

And Foggy can always see right through me. "Uh-huh," he replies perfunctorily.

"What?" I ask, trying to feign innocence and failing again even to convince myself.

"What's her name?"

It always goes back to sex with him. I roll my eyes, even though no one can tell. Least of all me. "No, Foggy, there is no 'her'."

"Come on, Murdock! Okay, you don't have to tell me. No, come on, I'd tell you." He sounds petulant, like an angry child who has been denied the candy at the checkout register of a supermarket.

A strong bile rises in my throat as I continue, asking playfully, "Come on, Foggy, when have I lied to you?"

Foggy pretends to think about it as he passes the police station. I can hear the cops on the other side, two of them, talking about a recent abduction. I file the information away for later use as Foggy decides to trust me. The knife in my gut turns as my best friend applauds my honesty. I should really tell him.

But I can't.

I clunckily change the subject, partially to drown out my own guilt, partially for the sake of the modesty and shame that Catholicism has burned into my brain. Don't talk about sex, said the nun all Catholics carry inside us, brandishing her ruler from the depths of my memory.

"Why did you really call, Foggy?" A simple, fair question he can't exactly get out of.

His belabored sigh sounds tinny through my phone's speaker. "If you're just getting up, which, by the way, is it's own problem." My friend waits for an apology that won't be coming.

I snort, pulling my way into what I'm almost positive is a blue dress shirt. "Come on, Foggy, you're not at the office yet, either." It's difficult to tell one color of shirt from another when the world looks draped in fire, which is why I had Foggy help me mark the buttons when I bought them, back when we'd been roommates. He had insisted on taking me shopping because he had the idea in his head that I might need help. Now every time I touch the lowest button, the one which indicates the color, I'm reminded not of my handicap, but of a friend's care.

I can sense Foggy's frown as he speaks. "How do you know I'm not in the office?"

I smile, glad at finally not having to lie. "Unless we have a couple dozen clients I'm not aware of, our office doesn't sound like a street corner."

My partner waits a moment to answer. "Look, I have something to tell you, but you're not gonna like it."

Icy adrenaline immediately starts to pump through my veins as I cross the room, now fully dressed, to reclaim my phone. "What happened. Is Karen okay? Did someone make another move on her apartment?"

Foggy's embarrassment could be heard over the line by anyone. "No, nothing like that. It's just...," he begins, floundering for words.

"Just what, Foggy?" I ask finally, trying not to sound too stern, while at the same time juggling a fight or flight response which demands answer. I can feel my muscles shaking in anticipation of...something. Action, preferably, but something.

After another long pause, I can hear Foggy making up his mind. "Look, you're not going to like this, but as your friend, I'm not letting you say no. With all this crazy shit going on in the city...I just can't stand the idea of something happening to you, Matt. So I'm taking you home at night from now until whenever they catch this psycho."

Part of me wants to chide Foggy for his lack of faith in me, but the rest of me just wants to laugh in relief. He'd built such a head of steam for himself, though, that it's hard to refuse him. Foggy definitely won't be deterred for anything other than a very good reason. A reason I have, but can't use.

I can feel the rope tugging against my neck as the anchor line draws taught in Foggy's direction. His concern is choking me, but I have no other options. No other viable options. "Sure, Foggy. Whatever you say."

* * *

Reviews are appreciated. Last chapter should be up sometime this week.


End file.
